Continued ...

Wednesday,
November 21,
1990

At my
neighborhood
beriozka, a
Soviet
state-controlled
TV (Gosteleradio)
crew burst in to
tape the wide
assortment of
products
available to
western shoppers
with credit
cards. One
Russian clerk
told them to get
out. The Soviet
producer snapped
back, "We
have permission
... don't forget
your
place!" and
pointed the
camera at me.
This video ought
to ruffle a few
Russians.
Nearby, a long
line waited for
sausages at a
state food
store.

I frequently
encounter the
Soviet militsia
("milly-men"
Americans here
call them), the
street cops who
whistle, wave
their batons and
point you to the
side of the road
for whatever
infraction you
commit in the
crazy Moscow
traffic. Any
offense is an
immediate charge
of ten rubles
(five, if you
don't ask for a
receipt, so they
can subsidize
their paltry 200
ruble-a-month
pay). They seem
especially
indulgent with
American
journalists, as
is noted on our
Volvo's license
plate. I've so
far avoided any
fines with my
good-natured
ignorance and a
few cigarettes.
Natasha tells me
I wouldn't find
them so amusing
if I had to live
under their
regime.

Saturday,
November 24,
1990

Moscow is
certainly the
quietest and
darkest of
cities I have
ever seen. Hard
to believe so
many millions of
people live
here. Even on
the most
thrilling rides
at Gorky Park or
watching a
soccer game on
TV, a stiffled
moan is the most
the Russians
emit. Cars drive
at night with
only their fog
lights, and
streetlights,
when found, are
dim. I wonder
what lurks
beneath the
calm?

Sunday,
November 25,
1990

Big problem:
I think I'm
falling in love
with Natasha.
Her sadness is
beginning to
seep into my
psyche, such a
pathetic life in
Moscow. What to
do? (The same
question Lenin
asked. I hope my
answer works
better.)

* * *

"Why
do you want so
much to
improve our
lives? Our own
leaders don't
care so
much." --
Natasha

* * *

Tuesday,
November 27,
1990

Last night a
thief broke into
our Volvo parked
just outside my
door. He broke a
window and was
evidently chased
off by the car
alarm; there was
nothing inside
worth stealing.
"I'm so
sorry for my
people,"
says Oleg.
"You are a
guest here. Our
criminals are
very
cruel."

As I vacuum
up the glass on
the ground from
the broken car
window, Oleg
comments a
Russian would
never clean up
after himself
like this.
"That
doesn't seem
very
socialist,"
I reply.

"Yes it
is," says
Oleg. "A
Russian doesn't
see it as 'his'
mess, but as
'our' mess --
something he is
not personally
responsible
for." Hmmph.

Thursday,
November 28,
1990

I tried
explaining the
High School Prom
to Natasha after
American girls
getting ready to
go popped up on
the home video
we were
watching. The
rich bedroom,
the beautiful
white dresses,
the stretch limo
awaiting
outside, the
boys in tuxedos,
the giggles and
gaiety. I feel a
horrible loss
for Russian
children who
never know such
frivolity. They
surely know they
are missing out.
Their
frustrated,
hungry lives,
their haunted
eyes. What is to
blame?
Government?
Russian
docility?
Natasha says
she's lived but
a few happy
days.

Wednesday,
December 5, 1990

Russians love
intimate
gatherings;
friends and
family huddled
around a small
table adorned
with breads,
meats, liquor,
and the
ubiquitous
samovar (a large
ornate pot of
hot water -- an
ancient symbol
of hospitality).
Conversation is
cordial yet
intense, usually
covering the
western taboo
topics of
politics,
religion and
love. Drinking
is vigorous,
it's considered
bad manners not
to drain your
glass after one
of the plentiful
and poetical
toasts.

This evening
my Russian
co-workers and I
stood shoulder
to shoulder
around an office
desk munching on
bread, meat and
chocolate,
sipping cognac,
celebrating the
50th birthday of
our cleaning
lady, Zoya. Our
talk: how
difficult it was
for her to find
these meager
morsels. (Unlike
the American
custom, it is
the duty of the
Russian birthday
celebrant to
throw his or her
own party.)

Friday,
December 7, 1990

"The fat
lady's on stage
and she's
bellowing her
lungs out,"
says my boss in
D.C. It's time
to liquidate the
bureau. Cliff
and Claudia,
avoiding the
trauma of
withdrawl, have
headed home. Our
Russian workers
are running in
circles to
"save our
very
lives."
It's up to me to
arrange the
pull-out.

Natasha,
sensing my
impending
departure, has
been clinging
with a strong
hand. She asked
me to write her
a love letter in
English. I did,
the usual slaver
about eternal
love, the
illusions of
space and time,
and the sort.
She pleaded to
me to promise
her it was all
true. (Love
letters are
about love, not
truth.) "Of
course it
is," I told
her. She
clutches the
letter as if it
was God's
invitation to
heaven ... I
wish it were.

Sunday,
December 9, 1990

Today I
visited Lenin's
Mausoleum. He
looks just too
real to be real.
The head of
Gosteleradio was
fired when a
guest on a talk
show suggested
Lenin be buried.
Many Russians
suggest it
nowadays. Lenin
along with
communism.

Friday,
December 14,
1990

Soviet
leaders are
appealing abroad
to obtain food
for their masses
in the midst of
severe winter
shortages of
everything. My
Russian
co-workers
search many
hours for the
simplest of
staples; one
found some eggs,
the others at
the office
gathered to
admire her good
fortune.
Overwhelmed, I
can do little to
help. I took
Oleg and Natalia
to lunch at
McDonalds --
Natalia ate her
fries, then
carefully
wrapped her
cheeseburger to
"save for
later."
(She was saving
it for her boy
at home, I
know.)

The amazing
Russian patience
is wearing thin.
Many officials
fear the people
may soon take to
the streets. (A
mob of 10,000
here is
considered a
mere
demonstration.
"You will
see
millions,"
warns a Russian
friend.)

They need
billions of
dollars worth of
supplies. The
U.S. has been
reluctant to
contribute in
retaliation for
Soviet policy
restricting
Jewish
emigration.

The Germans,
however, have
responded with
tons of food and
other products.
"We
conquered them
in the Great
Patriotic War,
and now we
accept their
charity. How bad
can things
get?" says
one disgruntled
Russian.

Interesting
to note this was
a record year in
the U.S.S.R. for
crop harvests,
which lay
rotting in
trains and
trucks due to a
decrepit
transportation
system and labor
problems.

* * *

"The
world owes our
country much
for
demonstrating
that communism
doesn't
work."
-- Sasha
Livshits, a
Russian
entrepeneur

* * *

Sunday,
December 16,
1990

As I wrap it
up in Moscow,
Natasha tells me
I'm like a
dream: a brief
sweetness, then
you wake up to
reality the next
morning and it's
gone. I tell her
I believe dreams
are closer to
ultimate reality
than life is,
maybe that's why
I like sleeping
so much. She
tells me she's
afraid to dream,
afraid to hope.

I tell her I
will try to
arrange a visit
for her to
America, a
promise I hope
to fulfill.

Monday,
December 17,
1990

I've caught a
bit of a cold,
the thought of
really getting
sick here is a
frightening
prospect.
Natasha worries
about me, and my
doctor friend
Yuri says he
will get
whatever
medicine I need.
Fortunately, I
have aspirin and
multiple
vitamins and
orange juice.
Without such
simple remedies,
even little
colds hit the
Russians hard
and often. I
suppose that
explains their
concern for me.
The standard
Russian cure for
a cold is
raspberry jam
("mahlina"),
honey and lots
of vodka.
Natasha brought
me the jam, Oleg
brought me the
honey. The vodka
is yet another
"defatseet"
(these days I
hear a lot of
that word --
meaning
"deficit").

When you
sneeze in
Moscow, a
Russian response
is "pravilnah"
(which means
"correctly");
it portends the
next statement
you make will be
truthful.

A few other
interesting
Russian
superstitions:

-- You should
always sit for
several
moments before
leaving on a
trip, this
ensures a safe
return.
-- If a single
woman sits at
the corner of
a table, she
will never get
married.
-- Never shake
hands or kiss
across a
threshold.
-- Never
refuse a drink
as a guest
(one rule
rarely
violated
here).
-- Don't
unlock a door
right after
you've locked
it.
-- If you
break a taboo,
spin three
times to the
left, spit
three times
over your
right
shoulder, sit
for a few
seconds, then
look at
yourself in
the mirror. Of
course there's
no guarantees.

Friday,
December 21,
1990

I visited
with head
officials at
Gosteleradio
today to discuss
our plan to
produce a Soviet
perspective on
the February
summit between
Bush and
Gorbachev for
distribution to
American
broadcasters.
Gostel is the
nationwide state
television
agency -- the
equivalent of
CBS, NBC, ABC,
PBS and CNN
combined. This
may be a
longshot chance
for us to remain
in Moscow.
Regardless,
Gostel was a
thrill to tour.

Monday,
December 24,
1990

This
Christmas Eve (a
non-holiday in
Moscow) Natasha
took me to the
Kremlin Armory,
a museum packed
with old tsarist
wealth; mostly
relics of war,
the foundation
of all great
histories, I
suppose.

Tuesday,
December 25,
1990

There is a
mysterious,
mystical side to
Moscow though
nonetheless
irrefragably
real: An
inexplicable
depth of an
unnamed presence
... a pulse ...
a most certain
course of events
amidst the
chaos. What is
it -- what moves
us here? What is
this that
finally feels so
familiar?

Sunday,
December 30,
1990

The desperate
food shortages
in Moscow have
intruded on my
relative margin
of comfort. The
lines at the
beriozka stores
have grown long
-- mostly
Russian mafia
and prositutes
with their
ill-gotten
"valyoota"
("hard-currency")
buying up
luxuries like
liquor and
chocolate. Even
the checkout
line at the
"credit-card-only"
beriozka wraps
around the
store. For 8
days I've been
unable to find
eggs and ice
cream (my main
staples).

Yet Zoya, our
cleaning lady,
gifted me a New
Year's bottle of
Hungarian
champagne ...
Lord knows how
she found or
afforded it.

* * *

"If we
can't live
like America,
then let's
make America
live like
us." --
Anon.

* * *

Tuesday,
January 1, 1991

New Year's
Eve and Day were
spent with
Natasha,
watching
American videos
such as the Star
Wars series and
The Godfather.
She loves the
look at western
lifestyles, and
it helps my
Russian
translating the
plot lines to
her. She, in
return,
translates the
Russian movies
on Soviet
television for
me and explains
the even more
bewildering
customs and
folklore woven
into the
stories.

Thursday,
January 3, 1991

Today I shot
the raising of
the flag at the
new Israeli
consulate, the
first time the
blue-and-white
Star of David
has flown in
Moscow for 23
years. Since I
was shooting for
Israeli
Television, they
cleared the
Consul General's
office of the
crowd of
correspondents
so I could have
an exclusive
interview. The
look on the
reporters' faces
as they were
ushered out was
worth all of my
hardships here.
As the video was
fed over the
Gostel satellite
uplink later in
the evening, I
could hear the
Jerusalem
control room
workers cheering
as the flag was
raised and the
Israel national
anthem was sung.
The new
consulate
expects to
process 400,000
Jewish emigrants
in 1991, likely
draining yet
more of the
educated and
skilled workers
from Russia.

Saturday,
January 5, 1991

As part of
the move toward
a market
economy, the
Soviets have
stopped
subsidizing
"luxury
items" like
car parts, furs,
and (gasp!)
beriozka stores.
The prices have
doubled since
the first of the
year when the
change took
effect. A dozen
eggs now costs
me about four
dollars.

Every night
lately I've been
having dreams of
home, the same
vivid dreams I
used to have
about Moscow.

Monday,
January 7, 1991

It's
officially
Christmas Day in
Moscow. Yeltsin
proclaimed it so
after he was
petitioned by
the Moscow
Patriarch of the
Russian Orthodox
Church;
Gorbachev
followed suit
and declared it
a Christmas
holiday in the
Republics as
well. It's the
first Christmas
in Russia since
the Revolution.
No one seems to
know how to
celebrate it,
but everyone is
enjoying the day
off.

Thursday,
January 10, 1991

Russians are
an interesting
combination of
extremes:
unrestrained
greed and
self-promotion,
countered by
expansive
philosophical
and soulful
depths -- each
trait
bountifully real
and
straightforward.
In comparison,
Americans appear
an in-between
muddle, often
frosted in
bullshit.

I'm not sure
if it is the
Russian's
self-centered
side that has
fostered this
ineffective
system, or the
horrible Soviet
system that has
advanced the
"get-out-of-my-way-and-give-me"
attitude. I do
know that a
self-serving
approach to life
(so pervasive
here) inevitably
leads to
mistakes as one
misses the
greater
perspective
available to a
more
transcending
viewpoint
("enlightened
selfishness"
the new-agers
call it). By
looking out only
for one's self,
one misses the
bigger picture
of one
cooperating
within the
context of all
else; a
necessary
awareness, I
believe, for
true enduring
success.

Fascinating
how the national
and individual
personalities
reflect each
other.

Moscow is a
free-for-all of
capriciousness
and graft and
ever-changing
"official
policy"
which keeps
everyone
guessing how to
proceed. For
example, a hotel
room (invariably
small and poorly
serviced) can
run $350
hard-currency
per night, or
only 15 rubles
if you have the
right connection
or an appealing
bribe (a pack of
cigarettes or a
five dollar bill
go a long way).

* * *

"I've
been covering
Moscow for 20
years ...
right now it's
like the old
Wild West; no
rules,
anything goes,
whatever you
can get away
with."
-- Ike Seamans,
NBC Moscow
Bureau Chief

* * *

Saturday,
January 12, 1991

Traffic in
Moscow is a
jumble of
horrendous
drivers newly
acquainted with
the privilege of
automobile
ownership. (Bad
drivers are
called "chaineeki"
--
"teapots"
-- though no one
can tell me
exactly why.)
Pedestrians
wisely scramble
clear of any
approaching
vehicle,
suspiciously
declining if you
extend them the
right of way.
The wide streets
rarely have
lanes marked,
and what lines
there are often
lead into a wall
or oncoming
traffic. You
just form a lane
wherever you
choose. Total
bedlam. Little
direction. An
apt metaphor for
the times.

Monday,
January 14, 1991

The
Bush/Gorbachev
summit will
likely be
postponed over
U.S.
pre-occupation
with the Iraqi
conflict (my
boss in D.C.
tells me the
Pentagon has
placed a rush
order for 16,000
body bags). A
mob of angry
protesters
amassed in Red
Square and at
the American
Embassy
yesterday in
response to the
Soviet Red Army
slaughter of 13
unarmed
demonstraters
this weekend at
the Lithuanian
broadcast
center. Yeltsin
is urging
Russian soldiers
not to shoot at
civilians even
if ordered to do
so by the Red
Army, furthering
the political
rift between
Russia and the
Soviet Union.

Gosteleradio
has canceled
"Vzglyad"
("Viewpoint"),
Soviet TV's
radical and
popular
investigative
parallel of
"60
Minutes."
The wretched
"tent
city" of
hundreds camped
out in front of
the Rossia Hotel
(drawing
attention to
Moscow's
homeless and a
plethora of
other causes)
for the past
many months has
been cleared in
yet another
example of a
diminishing free
speech. Tensions
in the street
are mounting as
limited food
supplies grow
thinner. And our
corporate chiefs
are in
Washington today
to layoff who
knows whom.
Yikes!

Wednesday,
January 16, 1991

This could
well be my last
Moscow entry as
I pack up our
gear and head
for home. (Home.
That word has
never sounded so
good.) Upon my
return all Sun
World Moscow
employees
including myself
will be
terminated.
(Terminated.
That word has
never sounded
good.) I've had
a few job offers
bringing me back
to Moscow.
Natasha
painfully
wonders what I
will do. My only
immediate goal
is to spend a
little time on a
Southern
California
beach.

* * *

"You
are now like a
Russian ... it
takes so
little to make
you
happy."
-- Natasha,
noting my glee
after a fine
Mexican meal
at the
American
Embassy

* * *

Thursday,
January 17, 1991

My boss
called at 3:00
this morning
(Moscow time) to
inform me the
U.S.A. had just
begun bombing
Iraq. Today all
streets around
the American
Embassy were
closed off by a
heavy Soviet
police
contingent and
cement
barricades. They
fear a terrorist
attack from the
large Arabic
community
(especially
Iraqi) in the
U.S.S.R. As I
left the
compound today,
the typically
terse Embassy
gate guard
warned me to
"be careful
out there."
The
"American
Correspondent"
license plate on
our Volvo (which
up to now has
been an
advantage) now
makes me very
nervous.

Tuesday,
January 22, 1991

My official
Soviet press
credential and
multiple-entry
visa, which have
taken months to
process, were
suddenly
delivered within
hours after my
boss sent a $200
bribe to a
Foreign Ministry
official (the
press credential
was handed to me
just in time to
allow me access
to Gorbachev's
press conference
disavowing his
role in the
Lithuania
killings).

Thursday,
January 24, 1991

My departure
has been delayed
long enough for
me to witness
the collapse of
Gorbachev's
perestroika and
glasnost.

New-found
press freedoms
have been
restricted in
response to
critical
coverage of the
Baltics'
repression. As
of the first of
February,
Gorbachev will
assign the
military to
patrol the
streets of
Moscow --
ostensibly to
"protect
the people from
hooligans,"
but more likely
to protect the
Kremlin
hooligans from
the people.

In an alleged
crackdown
against black
marketing,
Gorbachev has
recalled 50 and
100 ruble notes
(about one-third
of all Soviet
currency in
circulation).
Citizens
throughout the
Union were given
three days to
turn their
rubles in under
very strict
guidelines and
KGB supervision.
The new rules
allow an
exchange of up
to 1,000 rubles
of the large
notes, but many
people here have
amassed savings
of tens of
thousands of
rubles over
decades, stashed
under mattresses
and hidden in
dark corners,
waiting for the
day when there
might be
something worth
buying. Stunned
laborers,
farmers,
pensioners,
family men and
women stand in
long bank lines,
terror in their
eyes as
lifetimes of
work and savings
are snatched
away.

Fury and
frustration hang
in the air as a
flamable gas. I
fear an igniting
spark is
imminent.

* * *

"When
I was little I
would cry over
stories about
the black
people taken
from their
home to slave
in America.
Now I cry for
myself, a
slave in my
own
country!"
-- Natasha

* * *

Sunday,
February 3, 1991

(Annandale)
Early this
morning I was on
Red Square
shivering in
35-minus degree
snow as the
guards performed
their hourly
change at
Lenin's Tomb.

This evening
I am home in
Virginia,
sitting on my
large backyard
deck under a
warm Indian
Summer sky
shimmering with
stars.

How easy it
was flying home,
dining on
Lufthansa's
roast duckling,
leaving the
dreary Moscow
life behind, one
last quiet
"pahka"
to Natasha as
she poked her
head around her
apartment corner
for a final
glance, my
ransomed guitar
in her hand,
waiting for the
day I might
return.

America
glistened under
the bright
sunlight on
final approach,
rich and warm
like the gaudy
jewel it is, the
solid touchdown
pounding my
heart back home.

The stores
here packed with
products, the
people
preoccupied with
banal problems
beyond the
easily met needs
of daily
survival. I, the
American god in
Moscow, feel
alien in my
native land.

Do we -- do I
-- give up on
the great
Russian hope?

* * *

"Russia
stinks of
dirty bodies
and evil
Balkan tobacco
and a
disinfectant
they must
distribute by
the tank car
daily ... In
the end, every
little detail
starts to get
to you -- the
overwhelming
oppressiveness
of the place,
the plain
god-awfulness
of it."
-- P.J.
O'Rourke

"Everything
in you is
poor,
straggling,
and
uncomfortable;
no bold
wonders of
art, no cities
with
many-windowed
tall palaces
built upon
rocks, no
picturesque
trees ...
Everything in
you is open,
empty, flat;
your lowly
towns are
stuck like
dots upon the
plains ...
there is
nothing to
beguile and
ravish the
eye. But what
is the
incomprehensible,
mysterious
force that
draws me to
you? Why does
your mournful
song, carried
along your
whole length
and breadth
from sea to
sea, echo and
re-echo
incessantly in
my ears? What
is there in
it? What is
there in that
song? What is
it that calls,
and sobs, and
clutches at my
heart? ...
Russia! What
do you want of
me? What is
that
mysterious
hidden bond
between
us?" --
Nikolai Gogol

* * *

(Natasha's
Love Letter)

Steven Van
Hook
Moscow,
U.S.S.R.
Winter, 1990

Dearest
Natasha:

What is the
language of
the heart? Not
English. Not
Russian. Not
any tongue,
more meant to
cloud than
clarify the
soul's intent.

When we lie
together,
quietly, after
the passion is
calmed, you
must certainly
feel my heart,
my soul,
whispering its
message to
yours. Do you
hear it? Does
it speak the
words you
understand? Do
you believe
there is more
to be seen and
heard, beyond
the range of
eyes and ears?
I know it is
true!

Listen, my
love. Eternity
also speaks in
silence,
enveloping the
beloved in
timeless
truth. Do you
hear it?

Time and
place
banished,
their illusory
limits
eclipsed by
the
transcendent
light and
sound so afar
from the frail
and feeble
senses. Here
is where
dreams come
from. It is
real! It is
real!

You and I
are one. Small
waterdrops
flowing beside
in the
universal sea
of all
creation.
Apart,
together; such
words without
meaning in the
great ocean
where all is
one. Do you
feel it?

Take no
sorrow from
our partings,
only joy from
our union.
Long after our
bodies are
dust will I
hold you in my
heart, my
enduring
heart. You are
a part of me,
I a part of
you, we a part
of forever.

When I hold
you, I hold
all that is
perfectly
eternal. When
I gaze into
your soul, I
see all that
is gloriously
true. My heart
pounds in
rapture! In
you, I hear
angels
singing.
Kissing you, I
taste heaven's
nectar. You
are my
crystaline
window,
through whom I
may see God.
Do you believe
it?

Believe!

Please
forgive my
words, the
foolish words
from my
breath, those
from my hand.
They are words
that yearn for
meaning in a
hopeless
quest. Listen,
instead, to my
heart, that
dances over
this page,
between the
letters while
laughing at
them, that
feeds through
your blue
spangled eyes
to the core of
your soul.

Listen, my
love, to my
love; to
love's
language
everywhere the
heart turns
its mystical
ear. Do you
believe it?